


Parallels

by sasha_b



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-28
Updated: 2011-06-28
Packaged: 2017-10-20 19:26:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik and Charles, the beginning to the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parallels

**Charles**

Charles’ mother had left the cake and candles (unlit) on the table; the housekeeper was supposed to have told him, but he had been off and running from the moment he woke. His father (work? A trip? He can’t remember) surely had sent something, but no, it’s just the cake.

It’s elegant and simple and everything a ten year old boy should not be interested in, but Charles understands it as the art it is; his mother never does anything without a touch of what she considers class. He rolls lips inward and twists his mouth; the house is silent, the only sound a ticking clock. He finally shrugs and digs around in a drawer for a moment, finding a butcher knife way too big for the job at hand. Picking up the candles and setting them carefully to the side, he retrieves a glass of milk from the icebox and cuts into the birthday cake, taking an evenly cut square from the corner (he loves the icing; she did remember that).

He takes a fork from its place and slides the metal into the cool (it was warm, hours ago) dessert that is the gift his parents remembered to give him. What else could he want? He has books, his own chess sets and a fish tank the size of which he’s not even seen at the museum, and clothing and footballs and a real horse in the stables in back and he shoves a piece of the cake in his mouth, tasting not the sweet and expensive synergy of the ingredients, but the dry and sand like thoughts that swirl in his overactive brain.

 **Erik**

The neighborhood has been quiet, and he chances a glance out of the door at the top of the stairs. It’s been raining for three days, and the streets are wet and dirty and the sky is a morass of clouds that seem to weigh as heavy as the trucks that trundle up and down their street, the soldiers in them faceless and large and burdened with the shadows that seem to fill his whole world lately.

Sometimes there are knocks on doors and shouts and sometimes there is nothing but quiet whimpers he can hear through the paper thin walls of the basement they’re currently staying in, accompanied every once in a while with what he knows is gunshot. His parents tell him the sound is cars backfiring, but he clamps his lips shut on a retort.

“Erik,” he hears his mother say, softly, the tremors in her voice something he hates to hear, but they’re there all the time now. “Come away from there. I have something for you.”

He cants his green eyes up at the sky; black, thick clouds, his mouth twisting downward, his fingers twitching and itchy like they’ve been for the past few weeks now. He is scared of the feeling, scared of the anger that surges from nowhere when his hands ache.

Finally obeying his mother’s soft commands, he turns and thunders down the stairs, not worrying about patrols or anything at the moment. His mother is waiting for him; a strangely soft smile on her face. “Mama?” he says, concerned now. “What is it?”

She takes her hand out from behind her back, and Erik’s mouth begins to water at the sight of a (only slightly old; a day old if that) cinnamon bun that smells as though it came directly to his mother’s hand from heaven.

He reaches out a hand, but stops, looking at her. His dark hair is shoved back from his face, the eyes wide and unsure, his dirty nails reaching for the sweet he’s not seen in months. “Where did you – ”

“Happy birthday, my boy,” she says quietly. “I love you.”

He takes the bun from her, the turmoil and anguish and worry and _she’s so pale, what will happen when they find us?_ that fill him every day warring with the desire to shove the sweet down his throat. He hesitates, staring up at her, the darkness in her eyes lifted a bit, he thinks. Maybe. He remembers when his mama was beautiful all the time, not sad, not distracted. She’s still beautiful to Erik because she’s _mama_ , but…

“Eat it!”

She laughs, and he snatches the thing to his lips, devouring the cake in two seconds flat. His mother wraps her slender arms around him, and holding him close, whispers into his hair words he’d be embarrassed to admit make him feel good, make him feel safe, make him feel as though there is nothing wrong with the world and they’re not in danger every second of their tiny lives.

He doesn’t remember a birthday this good, ever.

 **Charles**

His brain is on fire; every thought in the room filling him, choking him, overwhelming his senses. He squeezes his skull with both hands; Raven was _wrong_ for him to try this, to try and compress it into single people. It’s been a long time since he’s been out in public without the control of long practiced binding, but…after three glasses of excellent port, Charles is definitely losing control of his faculties.

And his gift, but that’s not acceptable nor an option.

He focuses on one girl in front of him; she’s wearing black, and her hair swings from a graceful ponytail to dust her shoulders with red. He drops his right hand, his left fingers touching only the left temple, and _concentrate_ he can see only her now – his mind leaping forward into hers, seeing him from her eyes.

It stutters; people around her begin to invade, but Charles’ opens his eyes and _focus_ and it’s just her again.

He smiles and sidles up to her, buying her the drink she hadn’t known she’d wanted, making chit chat as he practices delving deeper, closer, _intimate_ inside. The girl has no idea what he’s doing, can’t feel the push of his mind against hers (flatscan, he thinks cruelly and then shoves the word aside), even as a slight nausea rises from his effort. Sweat beads his brow, but he keeps at it.

Keep at it. _You can do this, you can be what you were born to be._

 _Telepath_ echoes through his aching brain.

 _Monster_ joins that word.

He wonders how long he’ll be alone before someone else’s mind either catches his totally or breaks it.

 **Erik**

Slipping out of the camp and Herr Doktor’s office after being there for so long is remarkably easy. Erik pants as he _stop! Rest, his body commands_ halts deep in the tree line, at least 500 yards from the entrance to the camp. The Americans have taken over the place; he wonders where the Doktor went. He’s got to find him, actually. That’s all that matters now. Finding Schmidt and using the gift ( _curse_ \- no, he laughs; it is so much more.) he’s been given as a means to an end.

Revenge – avenge – death – silence.

He licks dry lips and slides further into the trees, coming upon an empty house that must have been a guard shack; a motorcycle is still there, as though waiting for him. The sky is black and the rain pours and he sits astride the bike, his hair plastered to his skull, his stomach growling and the threadbare suit he wears little protection against the elements. It is cold (is it? He can’t tell anymore) but he can’t remember the last time he’d worn a hat, or had gloves that fit. The Doktor didn’t want anything interfering in his practice – the fabric might have something to do with the quality of his power.

He closes his eyes (startlingly green; dry now) and lets the rage come.

The bike shudders under his stiff fingers, and Erik’s teeth grit against one another. It’s just metal. _He_ is metal, he is the thing that tells metal what to do.

His fingers crook and ache, and the bike whines and his eyes squeeze shut and with a cough and a pathetic growl, the bike turns over, and Erik’s hands latch on to it, and he’s driving through the rain for the first time since the men took him and his family and he innocently, stupidly, naively destroyed a fence.

Schmidt will be there, out there, somewhere. Erik will find him. He is brilliant and powerful (he is the monster that needed to be honed) and nothing in the wide, shadowy horrid world can stop him from his goal. No one could possibly even want to try.

 **Charles**

The girl is sweet and candy and fluffy and everything Charles finds cute in a woman. And her mind is like a toy; easy for him to slip into, hiding behind pillars of nothing and constructs that do nothing save hold up the neural pathways the girl needs to exist.

He fumbles with his belt, but only momentarily; she helps and they are soon unclothed and kissing and he keeps his mind focused, sharp, deadly with intent while his body does something it’s never done before.

He figures this is the best way to hone his skills, and have some fun besides. There’s been nothing he can find (it seems as though he’s been looking forever, too) that can turn him aside, now. He is the most powerful telepath on the planet.

And then he laughs, cocky, self assured, knowing what he does is for the greater good. Practice it, slide into the human’s brains when they need the help they didn’t know they were looking for. But only then, for anything else would be wrong.

No matter how much he might want it.

The girl kisses him again, and he shoves that idea aside; he is a good man, a smart man, and he will make the most of this gift. He closes his eyes and lets his brain invade (gently) hers.

 **Erik**

The men and women Erik’s used for release or for practice are nameless and faceless; this particular one sleeps in the cheap bed in the hotel he’s found a few blocks from where Schmidt was last seen. Erik sits across from her in a chair that reeks of ash and something he’s not letting himself think of; the silver hoop earrings she wears currently floating in a tight circle over his hand. He flicks his fingers, and they fly gently back to her head, slipping into her ears without disturbing her one iota.

He has a plan in motion, one that will see him to Herr Doktor – Shaw, as he’s going by now. The suit Erik needs for his trip to the bank tomorrow is pressed and hanging in a closet in another hotel across the city, and his fine briefcase and shoes are hidden away, packed, everything ready.

He’s about to find what he needs, what he’s searched for all this time – and he can’t move, can’t breathe or feel, can’t find the sense of closure he thought he’d be sure to have mastered by now.

The earrings slide out of the sleeping girl’s ears, and he closes his fingers, crumpling them into a ball of tarnished mess that drops to the floor.

 **Charles**

He jerks backward as he watches the sheer power it takes the mutant in the water to fling the giant anchor through the yacht, water droplets flying in gorgeous arcs even as the pain that comes from the man’s mind makes Charles sick at his stomach. Moira stands transfixed next to him, even as Charles points at the bobbing man – who’s suddenly not there.

His fingers at his temple, his eyes close and then open, blank and glazed –

 _followthemtheycan’tgetawaythisisallthatmattersnowiamnothingwithoutthis_

He leaps into the water without thinking about it – no, that’s a lie, it’s all he can think about, and finds the mutant easily, his arms locking about the man _Erik_ ’s neck, his mind slamming into Erik’s with no preamble or warning but he would be a fool to let anything happen here – he needs this man, needs him for what he has no idea, only that it is right and he _needs_ him.

Erik thrashes around him, deceptively slender body strong and agile, but finally allows Charles his way and when they surface –oh, the hurt in those green eyes, echoing, compounding, freezing the things Charles had seen in the other man’s mind, a tornado of pain and sadness and _vengeance_ and Charles has to swallow twice before he can answer Erik’s confused questions.

“You’re not alone.”

He’s never been more sure of anything (or more scared of anything) in his whole life.

 **Erik**

The chess board seems to be lit by a spotlight; Erik leans forward, hand holding his chin, contemplating, knowing Charles could guess his move, could pluck it from his brain like water through a sieve. And yet he also knows without a doubt Charles won’t do that, for he’s _Charles_ and … how long has Erik known him?

Three weeks and four days. He laughs, and it hurts when he does it. He’s spent his entire life on the run, hiding, doing what he wants in order to achieve the ends to his goal.

Charles touches his calf with his foot; Erik looks up from the board.

 _You don’t have to hide, you know._

“Don’t go there, Charles.” Erik touches the left side of his temple for a brief moment, the game forgotten, Charles’ eyes and face all he can see. What about Shaw? What about the man who almost drowned trying to lift a sub from the water, because that’s all he wants? Wanted?

“I already have,” the answer comes softly. “I am not afraid of what darkness is in you.” Erik waits for him to make the inevitable comment about the good outweighing the bad, but Charles’ mobile mouth is still, and his gaze serious, and Erik can feel the truth of Charles’ words blistering, burning from the other man’s mind.

Erik licks dry lips and rests his elbows on his knees; his sleek clothing and dark hair making him appear placid and tranquil and simple. Not so – the greatest power is always hidden by grace and a growing smile.

His teeth flash in the warmly lit room. “You should be, my friend.”

His echo of Charles sentimentality is bleak and low, his voice rumbling in his chest.

 **Charles**

The hospital is dark and it’s his first night alone (as alone as a telepath can be) for what seems like months. He sits in the bed, watching the weather outside the window, the beeping of the machines an almost derogatory sound; he’s Charles _Xavier_ , for God’s sake; he doesn’t need to be coddled or treated like an invalid. He raises the hand with the IV and the line flops against the bed; he’s thirsty and moves the sheet back from his –

“Bugger,” he whispers, the first concession to anger since they’d left the beach. Terror, yes, pain and heartache, oh yes. But anger; not Charles. He is the better man, he is the smarter man, the calmer and kinder man, and he will make a difference in the world. Even if Erik couldn’t see that. A single twitch of his eyelid; he can feel the other man’s shoulders under his hands, can feel the outline of Erik’s chest, can see the other man’s huge, silly grin, terrifying and strange and _you gave me this, Charles._

His eyes slide shut and he allows the anger to rise, searching for the other mind that matches his own ire, strange ire, not an emotion he’s used to. Clouds scud across the sky and the moon peeps out, shining and full and Charles keeps searching, thinking, honing the skill he’s developed with the help of Cerebro.

Nothing.

Not really nothing; it’s a blank wall, he realizes, like when he first encountered and tried to read Emma Frost. A smattering of thoughts, brief pain and a _don’t call me that name_ floats through his consciousness, and then it’s black and solid and real and impenetrable. He opens his eyes, shocked, pitiable, broken. He gasps without meaning to, hating the sound. Wretched. The other man is now consciously hiding himself from Charles.

Charles feels the unaccustomed anger build – anger at himself, anger at the world that separated him from the one thing, the one person that could be the answer in a lifetime of _empty._ He doesn’t allow himself to fully think that word; he’s not empty, he has the children and the idea of the new school just forming, and despite the loss he’s suffered, legs and the other loss, things will be alright. He can do this; he was born to do this, and _bugger it all_ he can’t sleep or rest or think anything else save _oh my dear friend, oh, Erik, what have you done?_

He lets his hand hide his face, and the hot tears scald his cheeks for what he knows will be the final time.

 **Erik**

The first night is difficult. Not because of the fear or the fact he’s completed the race he’s been running against Shaw for so many years – how odd is that, he can’t even bring himself to contemplate it yet – but because for the first time in _my lifetime it seems_ weeks he’s alone, truly.

The whole time he’d been on his own, running like a rabbit after Shaw, he’d had the goal, the end, the thing he knew he was there for and to accomplish. He’d done what he had to, killed who he had to, bribed and scared and threatened and pushed with his power to achieve his vengeance.

Now he has a … not a family (that would be what he’d just abandoned) but a group he can lead and mold into his own image, mutant and proud. The world will never know what hit it. He smiles and takes off the helmet.

 _Charles_

 _Charles_

 _Charles._

He pinches his eyes shut, the helmet falling from his grip as memories assail him, wretched, tiny things he couldn’t get rid of even if he wanted to. He grips a chair in the room for support and the springs in the thing unscrew and float around his head, finally shooting into the wall of the cheap hotel they’re hiding in.

His head pounds and he waits for the inevitable words – the pleading, the hurt, and most of all the _loss_ -

Nothing. Nothing save his own thoughts and memories of the last month.

His eyes open and he stands up straight; when he lets go of the chair it falls to pieces, its supports gone with the flexing of his power. He ignores it and crosses to the window, throwing up the glass, shoving his head (bare) outside, taking great, heaving lungfulls of the dirty city air.

 _he must be asleep_

Erik hangs his head outside the window a long time, waiting, wondering, silence filling his brain where before a cacophony would have been welcomed _so much more than pain and anger_.

 **Charles**

His chair glides smoothly to a stop on the ramp, even as Magneto turns to him. He’s barely paying attention to the conversation; have they aged so much?

“Are you sneaking around in here, Charles? Whatever are you looking for?”

Xavier sighs. “I’m looking for hope.” Still, after all these years. He cocks an eyebrow, his own hope rising, only briefly, but it’s still possible, just maybe…Erik.

“I will bring you hope, old friend. I ask only one thing in return.” Magneto approaches Xavier in a swirl of overcoat, his hair silver grey, distinguished, the perfect gentleman. Always. Charles holds his breath, uncertain – he hasn’t felt anything like that in a long time. So very long.

“Don’t get in my way.”

His eyes close, and despite the fact he knew, he knows, he felt it, he’d hoped, and that might be worse than not feeling anything at all.

Magneto – _Erik_ , Charles thinks; the other man pauses, but only briefly. _I don’t know that man anymore,_ floats back to Charles, one last thought, a gift, no matter how broken. Xavier smiles despite the pain in the words; it’s been eons. The voice is the same, deep, affecting, with that undercurrent of humor still tingeing its depths.

“We are the future, Charles, not them. They no longer matter.”

He’s gone and Charles allows himself to breathe as Jean comes up to him from behind. Her expression is wan and cold and he wonders how much of their conversation she’s heard; it doesn’t matter, everyone knows the basics of his relationship with Magneto, but the privacy and the longing still attached to it after so long – she doesn’t need to know that. He has a feeling, though, that she does, and he doesn’t begrudge her that, after all she’s been through for him.

 _He’s empty, Professor._

Xavier doesn’t look at her as she pushes his chair; a perfunctory motion as he can control it himself. The darkness of the sky outside is visible through the large glass windows they pass, and he doesn’t have to nod or acknowledge her thought.

He knows.

 **Erik**

Charles tells him he’s _looking for hope_. In vain, in vain, my old friend; Erik keeps the thought to himself. He’s learned to do that over time – he’s had to, in order to survive. That is his ultimate power, after all; he may be the master of magnetism with merely the lift of a brow and a gesture, but his real skill?

He rubs at his left arm, the numbers still there, a tiny gesture even as he tells Charles he will bring him hope. Anyone who survives the way Erik Lehnsherr has for more than forty years can bring any kind of hope you want. He touches the side of his temple to Charles, aping but not mocking. “Don’t get in my way.”

 _Erik._

He stops and closes his eyes. _I don’t know that man anymore._ The pain at hearing his name in Charles’ soft baritone brings – the cultured accent and the memories the one simple word evokes, god, he’d forgotten how it sounded – is worse than he could have thought possible.

“We are the future, Charles, not them. They no longer matter.”

His trench coat, expensive taste still, swirls at his ankles as he quits the building, his crew of loyal and dedicated mutants waiting for him outside. The dark sky shines with a weird clarity, even as the past _I thought I was alone_ -

But no.

Magneto lifts himself over a wall and is gone before he can remember the concept of whom _Erik_ ever was.


End file.
